


Ideology is a brain disease

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, Community: section7mfu, Gen, Nazis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 14:05:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15463050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Once upon a Time challenge. The prompt is the first paragraph. (A sort of follow up to "Yaphank, Long Island, welcomes blonds"Waverly is threatened, but the threat is existential - to UNCLE





	1. Chapter 1

"You understand that there must be no record of anything pertaining to this assignment," Alexander Waverly stated. "I have authorised for you to requisition any equipment you may need, but once you leave this building you must not make contact, in any way, until the assignment is completed. As such, you will have no access to records and, more importantly, no access to any back-up. Good luck, gentlemen."

<><><><><> 

Waverly’s two agents returned to their office to talk tactics.

“How did Mr Waverly manage to get across that particular Committee, do you suppose?” said Illya.

“No idea. He isn’t un-American – for an Englishman.”

“He’s quite unconventional sometimes. I expect he annoyed someone on the Committee by questioning some shibboleth or other,” Illya said.

“They could only have him removed if they thought he was an anarchist or a communist sympathiser.”

Illya grunted. “Well, he is – he employs and protects me. My status in this country would be anything but secure without him. Maybe that’s the problem – if so, I’m surprised it’s taken this long for them to notice it. But he isn’t an anarchist, just a bit anarchic.”

Napoleon looked grim for a moment. “Illya – maybe you ought to keep a low profile in this. If it’s you they’re actually after, you could be in danger of a long prison sentence.”

“I doubt it. My appointment has government approval.”

“But probably not the Committee’s. You’re by definition un-American.”

Illya shrugged. “And I’m not approved of by most organisations in this country, including the ones you are about to investigate. I’ve survived so far.”

<><><><> 

There was little love lost between UNCLE and other agencies. The heads of those agencies frequently thought that Alexander Waverly was getting above himself, and said that his appointment of foreign, indeed enemy, nationals was clearly a danger to the US. Their dislike of Illya Kuryakin in particular was legendary. So, to try to get a handle on what might have caused Mr Waverly’s standing to sink even further, it was Napoleon, not his partner, who sought out other agents’ drinking holes. He, at least, was more-or-less accepted among the fraternity.

Illya, meanwhile, went down to records before doing anything else and examined all the documents relating to Waverly’s recent meetings and recorded conversations, taking with him Waverly’s own handwritten permission to do so.

An account of one meeting with three members of the HUAC made him sit up. The three included a name he knew from an aborted recent mission, a man who had put so many obstacles in their way that the mission had failed before it started. This man had seemed suspiciously well-acquainted with certain members of that German community in Yaphank, men who lived very quietly indeed.

<><> 

Illya joined Napoleon in his apartment that evening and found him in sombre mood. He had ordered in a selection of Chinese dishes and listened to Illya describe his findings while he laid them out.

Opening a bottle of wine, he said, “You’re right. It was because of him that we couldn’t get into Yaphank to look for Nazis and their ill-gotten gains.” He poured wine into a glass and handed it to Illya. “He’s the right age to have been implicated himself,” he continued, “but so are a lot of people, and they do tend to look alike.”

“And people can change a lot in twenty-odd years. I couldn’t find any useful photographs in the Nuremberg papers to match the current pictures of him,” said Illya.

Napoleon handed him a plate. Illya loaded it from the dishes laid out. “So, he may be the cause of the threatened investigation of Waverly,” he said and, taking a mouthful of noodles, he mumbled, “What did you find out during your drinking spree with our brothers in espionage?”

“Do you mind? I drank very sparingly, as it happens. And you shouldn’t speak with your mouth full – where were you brought up?”

“I wasn’t.”

Used to ignoring these slightly ambiguous responses, Napoleon continued, “Well… even some of _them_ think it’s a strange business. They might not like our revered leader but they do actually respect him – even though he employs you.”

“You know, I think beer would go better with Chinese,” said Illya, taking a sip of wine and wrinkling his nose.

“Yes – this wine isn’t right, is it? I might have some beer in the fridge, just a minute…”

“So, what did those agents say?” said Illya when Napoleon returned with the beer.

“That the activities of the Committee aren’t taken seriously any more. They’re widely mocked – the Yippies are doing a fine job of undermining them – but it still has influence in certain areas.”

“Notably ours,” said Illya drily. He accepted the glass of beer and drank some. “That’s much better. Thanks.”

Napoleon stopped eating. “They didn’t say it in so many words,” he said, “but they think it’s serious. That it’s UNCLE itself that’s being indirectly accused of un-American activities. That this could be an existential threat to UNCLE.”

Illya too stopped eating. “If you’re right, I wouldn’t want to trust any other agency with any information we find.”

They sat silent for a while, eating and thinking.

“We need to find proof of this man’s identity – who he is and what he did.  I think we should start with the German community in Yaphank. There may be clues there. You could do your little Nazi act again.”

“I can’t pull the Nexor stunt this time,” said Illya. “He’s too over-the-top.”

“You can invent a new nasty-Nazi character.”

Illya sighed. “But this time, no scar,” he said.

“All right, but you’ll have to cut your hair short, of course – shorter than mine, probably,” Napoleon said.

“What? Oh no.”

“And maybe have a snaggle tooth inserted – that would change your lovely looks quite effectively.”

“Napoleon…”

“Distinctive looks, I mean.”

Before Illya could turn nasty on him, Napoleon started to offer some quite good ideas for infiltrating the community and digging the dirt on the HUAC man, and Illya listened.

<><><>


	2. Chapter 2

It was the old battle of thirty years ago between the fascist Right and the communist Left. The only happiness for the majority lay in liberal compromise, unpalatable to some but it at was least truly democratic – no-one was ever murdered, no-one starved or was imprisoned unlawfully by a liberal government. The fascist-leaning, isolationist community in Yaphank’s German Gardens practised the nominal form of democracy such ideologues flaunted as genuine. But the people living there were beginning to have doubts about the ideology, particularly when it manifested itself in restrictions on such mundane things as loans, mortgages and house sales. No-one was able to sell a house to anyone lacking German origins, no-one could raise a loan for house improvements when they didn’t own the land outright – and people wanting to move out couldn’t. So, there were rumblings of discontent.

One family, needing to move away and as yet unaware of the implications of the community’s restrictive covenants, had approached a real estate agency and were expecting a visit by a representative. Neighbours watched as the big convertible with an agency logo on the side drew up and a dark young man got out. They watched him enter the house and someone called the Settlement League’s Secretary.

The young man was charm itself. He was complimentary about the house, its setting, its privacy and even what he had seen of the rest of the community. “Seems so peaceful, away from the big city,” he said. “No social problems here, I guess?”

No, they said. It was a very homogeneous community. Everyone knew each other, everyone thought the same way. They wanted to sell to someone like them.

“I have just the man,” said the supposed realtor. “He’s part German, so he ought to fit in nicely. I’d like him to see it.”

At this moment the door bell rang. It was the Secretary, who came in as if by right, sat down and announced himself to the realtor. “I am the Secretary of the German-American Settlement League here. You are?”

“Nat Simple – simple realtor hoping to sell this fine house – at your service,” he beamed.

“I doubt it,” said the Secretary.

“Oh, but he has someone who would be interested in buying the house already,” said the lady of the house. “Someone who’s part German.”

The Secretary raised his eyebrows. “How did he hear about it?”

“Oh, he’s always been interested in this community,” said the realtor, “so when I got this lady’s call I knew I could help him and _you,_ ” he gestured to the couple.

“If he is truly interested, then we will interview him and see if he shares our Gemeinschaftsgeist and is suitable to join our select group.”

“Your what? Oh, your community spirit? He’ll certainly have that. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to meet you.” Mr Simple beamed again.

<><><><> 

The little Volkswagen pulled up outside the League’s office. Three men watched as a slight, upright, distinctly Aryan figure, conservatively dressed and wearing gold-framed spectacles, walked stiffly up the path.

They conducted the interview with Herr Doktor Nikolas Kaczka entirely in German. When they asked for proof of his antecedents, he explained he couldn’t give them as his family’s papers had been destroyed during the war. They had lived close to the Eastern Front during the war – which also explained his Polish surname and his knowledge of Polish and Ukrainian. Apart from the missing papers, he was ideal, even to his looks – very short blond hair, blue eyes, flawless German, physically fit, and moreover unmarried, so he would also bring interest to the women of the community.

As a courtesy, they asked him if he had any questions. Yes, indeed. He was enthusiastic about the community’s national socialist origins, it seemed, and wanted to know whether the three men interviewing him had been there since the community was founded. The interview turned conversational and two of them regaled him with their youth in the community’s active national socialist past. He turned to the other, when there was a pause in the narrative, and said, “And you, sir? You are German and – something in your accent is like mine – Polish? Ukrainian?”

“Very astute, Herr Kaczka,” he said. “I am German of course, but my family has roots in both Poland and Ukraine.”

Herr Kaczka was interested in someone with roots so similar to his own. “How did _you_ come to the USA?” he asked.

“I came after the war. I brought my mother to New York but my father went to Argentina where I too intended to go, but my mother wanted me to stay with her – she was sick, you understand.”

“Ah, Argentina. My father went to Bolivia. It’s safe in South America.” Kaczka winked and smiled conspiratorially.

“Indeed. He has so far avoided the attentions of Herr Wiesenthal.”

The other two men glanced at each other uneasily. This was all-but-forbidden territory. Herr Kaczka was now saying, “I hope that is true for you too,” and they relaxed a little. “May I ask what it is you do here in your adopted country?” Kaczka then asked diffidently.

“I work for the government, Herr Kaczka, on a committee of the House of Representatives.”

The young man seemed impressed. “Keeping the country on the straight and narrow, no doubt,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“And here, you keep the faith also. Alles gut. I should like to buy the property. May I be assured of your approval for that?” He smiled broadly and confidently. One of his canines was longer than the rest, giving him a somewhat daunting, feral look, but he seemed amenable enough. The main thing was his attitude – he had their Gemeinschaftsgeist in spades.

<><><><> 

Napoleon chuckled at Illya’s shorn head (he had removed the snaggle tooth) when he arrived to report and, just as offensively, said, “I feel I ought to give you a straight-arm salute, mein Herr.”

The expected glare was brief, however. Illya ran a hand over what was left of his hair – there were no gleaming locks to run his hand through – and said, “They bought my story – and they accepted my offer to buy the house.”

“You’re not going to, are you? Waverly will have a fit.”

“No, of course not – though I’m quite sorry for the couple who want to sell. But one of my interviewers was the man Mr Waverly has met. It seems his father is living in Argentina – I assume on the run as a Nazi war criminal. I’m pretty sure this man, too, is a former Nazi living under an assumed name and helping to keep the Yaphank German community faithful to national-socialist ideals.”

“Got him!”

“Not yet,” Illya said sardonically. “We have find out his real name. He’s German but partly Polish and Ukrainian.”

Napoleon looked up. “Ukrainian?”

“Every country has its renegades, Napoleon.”

Napoleon grinned. “Takes one to know one,” he said.

Illya stood up with dignity and said, “I know where to look – I’m heading for Ludwigsburg, West Germany, tonight. I’ll see you when I get back. Don’t wait up.”

“I won’t. I’ll be busy too. Plenty of things to check at this end.”

<><><><>


	3. Chapter 3

There was very little interest in tracking down former Nazis in the US since communists had become the greater ideological enemy. There was even a suspicion that US intelligence agencies actively sought out and, not only used, but protected such people. The West German government, however, had an office devoted to Nazi-hunting – Illya planned to start there.

He flew into Stuttgart, booked into a hotel and in the morning took a taxi to Ludwigsburg where the Central Office for the Investigation of National Socialist Crimes had its home. They allowed him access to the files detailing post-war departures from German airports, and to records of arrivals in the US and Argentina. It was a long and tedious business checking the names. It took him a week to find the two he sought, father and son. One had travelled to Buenos Aires, the other to New York with an older woman. Both men were wanted for war crimes in Poland.

Fearing that his research might be confiscated on his return, and intercepted if sent direct to UNCLE or even to General Delivery, he sent a full copy by airmail to a safe house in New York.

His UNCLE passport usually got him into the States successfully but rarely protected him from the attentions of rival agencies. Unable to contact UNCLE to challenge his detention, he had to undergo a CIA search of his luggage and his person and naturally his file of notes was found. He had been careful to disguise the paper trail, and he had written the Nazi’s real name in code so he was reasonably confident of maintaining the secrecy of the mission. But, of course, there was no disguising where he had been or how close it was to that particular Office.

His story was that he’d been collecting information from colleagues in Stuttgart and Heidelberg. It naturally failed to convince them, but they could get nothing more from him and they gave up – there had been serious high-level trouble last time they had taken him in for heavy interrogation. He then made his way to Napoleon’s apartment and, rather tired by now, was careless about others that might be interested in his movements.

Napoleon didn’t seem to be in so he was searching his pockets for the keys when the world went black. Napoleon had gone out for some supplies a few minutes before and when he returned found him lying among his scattered belongings.

When Illya came to his senses, he was laid out on Napoleon’s sofa, a wet cloth on his forehead. “Rookie behaviour, Illya,” said his partner. “Weren’t you keeping an eye open?”

Illya lifted a hand to his head. “What did they take?”

“What did you have?”

“My suitcase.”

“It’s here but it’s been ransacked. I assume you had papers in it once?”

“Yes, in code. The CIA have seen them already – they searched me at the airport. I guess these were FBI – much less polite. But I mailed a copy to the safe house a few days ago. It should have arrived by now.”

“Well, that’s something, anyway. Want something to eat? I’ve just been to the deli.”

Illya sat up carefully. “Yes, please.”

“Okay. I’ll bring it through. Then I’ll go and retrieve the papers.”

Illya nodded and leaned back, feeling a little sick.

Napoleon looked at Illya’s eyes and said, “Are you OK to be left?”

“A bit concussed, I think. I’ll be OK, but I’d better not eat anything. Can I have a cup of tea?”

<><><><> 

Napoleon bought himself an extra-large hotdog with extra onions and collected some flowers and a box of chocolates before visiting the safe house – in order to appear to be pursuing the activities he usually engaged in when off duty. He reckoned a possible highjack might occur when he left but he had a contingency plan for that.

The letter was there. He opened it and checked the contents. When he came out, he was clutching the bouquet and chocolates in one hand, the hotdog in the other, and looking doleful – as if he’d been stood up. Whether it fooled anyone or not, it wasn’t long before he spotted the tail as he drove back to his apartment. He changed direction and headed for the UNCLE garage where at least he’d have assistance.

That was the idea, anyway, but there were two cars. They came from opposite directions in a one-way street and brought him to a stop. He smiled winningly and joked with the men who approached him but received no response. They looked down into the car, one picked up the bouquet and the chocolates, the other rifled his pockets ignoring his protests. Then they returned to their own vehicle and reversed back up the street. The vehicle behind followed him before turning off to catch up with the other.

Napoleon continued on his way to the UNCLE garage. He borrowed a clean envelope from reception, put the documents in it and gave it to Wanda. “This is urgent, Wanda. Take it to Mr Waverly immediately,” he said and left her sitting slightly open-mouthed.

<><><><> 

“How you feeling, partner?” he said as he came in, still holding the now rather cold hotdog. “Hungry?”

Illya eyed the hotdog. ““What, no ketchup and mustard? Did you get that specially for me?” he asked.

“In a way – here, have a look.” He removed the wiener and attendant garnish to a plate and handed the roll to Illya.

“Just bread for me, yes? And water to follow? … Oh, I see… Very neat. Weren’t you followed?” Illya tore open the envelope, sticky from the wiener and onions. “Napoleon, it’s empty!” Illya frantically dismembered what was left of the bread roll in search of his papers.

“Relax. I banked on them not liking onions so they didn’t look at that – I’ve delivered your report to Mr Waverly. Mission complete. We can go in tomorrow and let him take over the next stage.”

Illya sat back and wiped his brow. “Which is?”

“To inform them that a member of the HUAC is a war criminal and former Nazi. Make them chew on that lousy fascist ideologue instead of on the little Red Menace in UNCLE and his mentor.”

“All ideologues are sick,” said Illya with feeling. “Can we eat now? I don’t think I want this.”

“Yes. I’ll get it – be patient. By the way, have I told you how well your hair looks now it’s grown?”

He caught the tattered roll flung at him and took it away to the trash.

<><><><>

**Author's Note:**

> The title phrase was coined by Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin of the radical, counter-cultural and anarchic Yippie movement (Youth International Party) which mocked the House Un-American Activities Committee so mercilessly in the 1960s.
> 
> The German-American Settlement League at Yaphank exists. Its activities are on record. But any resemblance to any real person associated with it is entirely accidental and unintended. 
> 
> Kaczka is a village in Poland, and in Polish, among other things, means duck.


End file.
